Dark Nights in the Hollow Halls
by Dark HP Dreams
Summary: Dark!Harry. With Harry in a state of depression over the loss of Sirius, he turns to the Dark Arts to give him back a godfather. Post OotP


Disclaimer: Need I not tell you that I do not own Harry Potter, never will.

You really should not remind someone that they would never be able to live their life-long dream and own the brilliant, amazing, people and places of the Wizarding World.

No, that all is owned by the talented author J.K. Rowling.

P.S. : That disclaimer goes for the whole of this story, not just this chapter.

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**Dark Nights in the Hollow Halls**

**Chapter One: Questions to be Asked**

"No! Harry! You have to control all those emotions! Don't let me see a weakness and stay in charge!" Sirius yelled to his godson. They were standing in the Room of Requirements training for what Harry must face in his years to come, or more commonly referred to as the Final Battle. Right now, he was working on non-verbal magic and Harry was having much trouble accomplishing the hard task. He continued to be unable to control his emotions; therefore, his magic would 'explode' at random intervals. Harry had just come to the magical room to practice with Sirius after a long Monday. He hated his schedule on this specific day; Defense Against the Dark Arts was terrible; Snape was trying to curse him non-stop. The class was working on non-verbal spells in that class too, but Sirius was more patient, (even though it was running thin now) and helped Harry when he needed it. He had a free period right now, and was spending his time trying to master the art of silence spells, or at least learn the foundation of them. Snape was no good at teaching, though he may have immense knowledge on the subject.

A year ago, Sirius died. Or closest thing to it. Harry was in the most grief he had ever been in during the summer following. He still was feeling guilty, too, at the time about Cedric Diggory's death and then Sirius, the father figure he looked up to, died too. Of course, to put the cherry on top of all his troubles, he was destined to be the savior of the Wizarding and Muggle world. He could not even begin to think about suicide, (which he greatly considered when he was at his lowest point), because then he would be letting the world down. People needed to be saved and it was his fated job to do it.

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**The Previous Summer**

Harry was sitting in the old chair stationed in front of his desk, tapping his fingers along the glossy surface slowly and to a rhythmic beat. His 'family', the Dursley's, had bought all new furniture for all the rooms in the house, with the exception of Harry's. Harry and received Dudley Dursley's old wardrobe and desk, but was not able to take the matching sets of chairs because all were either broken to splinters or cracked from when Dudley sat on them.

Vernon Dursley had earned a promotion from spending several more hours at the office and bullying many more companies to buy drills from him. He was taking Dudley and Aunt Petunia to the vacation house that they were promised three years ago, when Vernon had thought he was sure to be making more money after a dinner party. The party had unintentionally been cut short with the arrival of one crazy house-elf and a Ministry owl. Dudley could not remember what number comes after thirty, yet he remembered the promise that was made three years ago so he could spend a weeks worth on some fancy island. That was all fine with Harry, he was alone for a week, now knowing that Mrs. Figgs was really a Squib, she didn't bother to make Harry stay at her house, and let him do what he pleased at the Dursley's. Harry had expected himself to enjoy the freedom that came with being able to go through the food cupboards, eating however much he pleased, but since the death of Sirius, he could never eat properly. He also thought that watching the tube at his liking would be fun, seeing as how he was not even allowed to watch the news when the Dursley's were home. But because he was always more interested in what was happening with the wizards rather than mere things such as Muggles on game shows and reporting junk like interviews with Such-and-such who is dating This-and-that, the privilege grew old he just was left to sit at his desk, looking out the window as he was now, wallowing in grief.

All the times that he was left alone and without any thing to do, left him to sort through all his thoughts, and there sure were many. He would kill for a Pensieve right now, to be able to forget the many times Sirius would smile at him, or to forget his bark/laugh. He just could not stand the thought that Sirius would not be able to fight along side with Harry during the war that was raging, for Sirius was a born solider. He missed Sirius so much, even if he would probably not be with Sirius now if he was alive, he still would have the knowledge that someone who really loved him like the father that was taken from him in the beginning was there. Why did things keep happening to Harry? He had never committed crimes that deserved to be punished with the deaths of all the loved ones he had lost. Many of the bravest souls would not be fit to go battle a war with such a huge sorrow and an all-lasting lump in their throat.

At times like these when he would get the stinging sensation in his eyes, Harry would usually blink the tears back and mentally scold him for being weak. Weakness is death during war. Now, however, he just could not hold in the feelings that were rushing through his person. Sadness was leaking down his pale cheeks, and hate was dropping onto the glossy surface of the desk. He hated the Death Eaters. He hated Bellatrix LeStrange, the murder of his godfather. He hated Voldemort. He hated the Ministry for not believing that Voldemort was back and for falsely imprisoning Sirius for twelve years. He hated all the pity letters that he was receiving from Hermione and Ron. He hated the Order for not being able to save him. He hated the veil, death, evil, and prophecies. Mostly, at that moment of hate, he hated himself.

The stupid hair on his head that reminding him of the pictures of his father, and reminded him that it would be the only thing he could feel and touch that his father had (besides the invisibility cloak). He hated the glowing emerald eyes that he had inherited from his mother, hated how every time he looked in the mirror or reflection, her eyes were looking right back at him. He hated the knobby knees he got from the Potter side of the family. None of his the features were his own, all owned before him to some other person, much like everything he had. Harry hated the pale skin that was stretched hazardously over the weak bones he managed to achieve from not being able to consume daily amounts of food, and when he did manage to eat something, vomiting it all back up. He hated the glasses he wore, how ugly and how they caused much ridicule before he was sent to learn at Hogwarts. Finally and mostly, he hated the scar that was forever burned into his chalk white skin. He hated how it burned whenever Voldemort killed, or when his plans were working. He hated how people always stared at his scar like some sort of exhibit at the zoo.

He was so full of hate just then he did not stop and realize that his hands were glowing red. He shut his eyes so hard and let more and more salty drops fall down his face.

What he did seem to realize after a few agonizing moments, was that his scar seemed to burn not with the expected pain, but with comfort and pleasure. This brought him out of his hateful thoughts and caused him to snap open his eyes to the foggy night's mirror. What he saw in the reflection irked him, for his scar was still dimly beating warmly, and the lightning that was shaped on his forehead glowed black.

When his hate had finally died to mere thoughts pushed into the filling cabinets of his mind, the lightning bolt returned to its previous red line, and the dull pain Harry was used to feeling returned. Had his hate brought that pleasuring warmth? Was his hate that powerful to turn the main source of intense pain, at times pain worse than a Crucio cruse, warm and fluffy? His eyes showed fear. If his hate was that strong, and Voldemort grew powerful off hate, was he powering the evil one?

Many thoughts raced through his worn mind. Closing his eyes once more, with his brain still buzzing with questions, Harry Potter leaned against the hard chair, and slept his first peaceful night in many months.


End file.
